


Arcana Imperii

by AgentJoanneMills



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Romance, Stargaryen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wild she-wolf of Winterfell, after laying waste to her pack's enemies, finally comes to the capital and stands before the Dragon Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 00. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Merely a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge and heartfelt gratitude to starkyd7. You're the real MVP. Thank you so much for looking over this and beta-ing and for encouraging this flu. :))

 

They call her the Wolf Blade.

They say she leaves a trail of crimson everywhere she goes—that when she reclaimed Winterfell, she stained its grounds with the blood she drained from her enemies. That she hunted down every last member of the Houses who destroyed hers, and there was nothing left for the crows when she was through with them.

(She is as ruthless as the Northern winter, as harsh and unforgiving.)

The ruins of her wrath-induced slaughter are dripping red, soaking the earth—and the tableaus she creates are masterpieces of pain, death, and destruction.

She is the sword of the gods, wielded to serve their divine retribution, and wolf’s blood runs true in her veins.

(No enemy trembles before her now, because no enemy is left.)

 

****

 

Arya Stark stands before the woman who now sits on the Iron Throne. Her stormy grey eyes drink in the sight of the famed Mother of Dragons, noting every detail and committing them to memory—the Targaryen-violet eyes, the flawless skin, the aristocratic tilt of her head, the fine line of her jaw. Arya is no stranger to beauty, having seen her fair share in the streets of the Free Cities, but this—this is incomparable.

 _She is incomparable_ , Arya thinks. She has seen her before, but that was in the middle of a war against the undead army—and it was from afar, when the Queen was riding one of her dragons. Here, up close, Arya can see everything. And if she did not possess remarkable self-control, her breath surely would have caught in her throat.

(And she looks so alive, so warm.

And the wolf within Arya howls for a taste of that life, of that warmth.

She tramps it down, _firmly_.)

Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name—Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Queen of the Rhoynar, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons (and quite possibly a few more epithets which she earned and had made her a living legend)—is studying her with an inscrutable expression, and Arya can feel her own men shifting anxiously behind her.

She couldn’t blame them, not really; Arya accepts the fact that even grown men who rallied behind her when she took back the North _can_ indeed feel intimidated beneath the intense gaze of the most powerful woman in the world.

“They say you can’t be killed,” the Mother of Dragons finally addresses her, her eyebrows rising in quiet skepticism.

“ _Valar Morghulis_ , Your Grace,” Arya answers, her tone cool and calm. “Anyone can be killed.” She remembers telling Tywin Lannister the same thing, several lifetimes ago. Back when she was a pathetic prey to the lions.

(But there’s no lion left now but one, and he’s as much of a predator as Arya was when she first arrived at this wretched capital, all those years ago.)

Wolf fangs ended that cursed bloodline.

(Because the poor pup grew to be a murderous she-wolf, and she demanded the lions’ throats.

She ripped them out herself; her muzzle is still wet from their blood.)

Now, though— _now_ , she faces a dragon.

(Funny, how her life seems to be a cycle of playing both the hunter and the hunted.)

“And yet here you are, despite being believed dead all these years,” there’s a note of curiosity in the Queen’s statement.

(And maybe Arya would satisfy that curiosity, someday.)

“It was a string of circumstances I had no control over that had kept me alive.” It was not luck—for if that were the case then her life should have been a _lot_ better—and it was not fate either. Arya had stopped believing in those things since her father’s head was chopped off, having been branded a traitor by the very people he had only ever wanted to honour and protect.

“That may be, but I hear your own resourcefulness and determination helped as well.”

Arya shrugs. “I was properly motivated, Your Grace. I had a list of things I _had_  to do, and to accomplish them I needed very much to still be breathing.”

Daenerys nods in understanding. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms—and quite possibly in places on the other side of the Narrow Sea—is aware of how Arya Stark took it as her mission to bring down all those who had wronged her family and guide her siblings home. Arya had erased every Bolton, Frey, and nearly every Lannister from the world—the only Lion remaining is the one she herself has employed to be her counsel, who now silently observes them. “And these things are done,” she said.

The Red Wolf sits as the Lady of Winterfell (the Queen in the North, some say, but those who are afraid of the disrespect that might imply to the Dragon call her the Warden of the North, like her Lord Father), with the wild Wolf Cub by her side. The Sage Wolf, whose powers are in equal parts great and mysterious, advises her in ruling their territory.

“They are done,” Arya agrees, her voice cold, her face drawn tight in that somber expression for which Northerners are known. The grey eyes of her ancestors are filled with grief and rage far beyond her years, churning inside like her own private thunderstorm.

Daenerys tilts her head, appraising her (and there’s a glint in her lilac eyes that makes Arya’s mouth run dry). “Your accomplishments, personal they may be, are viewed as a service to Westeros. You have plucked the weeds, and the fields are now ready for plowing. You are a hero, Sword of the Gods.”

Arya bows her head. “You honour me, Your Grace.” It’s more than she expected.

( _She’s more than I expected_.)

“Not enough,” Daenerys says. She waits for Arya to look at her again before continuing. Her tone brooks no argument—it is not a request, but a royal demand. “I want you to be my knight.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a non-linear presentation of interconnected "snapshots" of what's happening. :))


	2. Opus 1 - A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (A precipice in front, wolves behind)
> 
> The lions face their demise.

 

 **Jaime**  

 

There was a time when gold-and-red banners stood for pride and courage—a time when the image of the roaring lion brought forth a sense of foreboding and terror to its enemies, glory and triumph to its allies.

The lion was the king of the forest, demanding fealty from the lesser creatures and tearing them apart if they refused.

(Their golden standard was as much a show of strength as the bronze stag’s crown— which was a mere puppet, after all, because behind the pomp and pageantry, who truly played the game?)

 

For years the sun was high in the sky, and beneath its light the lion had rampaged and ruled without contest.

But that time has passed.

The sun has set, and the season when prey was plentiful is gone.

 

The long summer is no more.

 

****

 

 _Hear me roar_ , the lions had boasted, puffing out their chests and flaunting their royal manes.

(But they can’t roar anymore, and they are wiped away with not so much as a whimper of defeat.)

 

****

 

 _Winter is coming_ , the wolves howl.

The rest of the kingdom did not understand these words of warning from an old Northern House.

(No amount of warning could have ever made them understand, anyway, until it was too late.)

 

****

 

Winter has finally come.

And leading its charge is the youngest she-wolf—long believed dead, but risen from the grave with vengeance in her heart.

 

****

 

The moon is high in the sky, and beneath its light the wolves tear asunder all enemies of the pack.

It is the hour of the wolves.

Dusk beckons, and a dark veil has come over the world.

 

Winter arrives with crimson snow.

 

****

 

Jaime regards the she-wolf calmly. There’s no trace of the Riverlands in her; she’s so dissimilar from her sister that way. This one is as Stark as Stark can be; there’s a wildness in her that is entirely Northern, and her solemnity mirrors that of her late father’s. He remembers her running through the Red Keep with a wooden sword—unlike the one she carries in its scabbard now.

“You’re the lost Stark.”

The words are barely above a whisper, and western winds almost snatched them away before reaching the she-wolf’s ears.

Arya Stark stands before the Kingslayer, the Pride of the Lions, the Lord of the Rock, who is slumped down at the foot of his gilded chair. His left hand holds the hilt of his sword, while his golden one cradles the blade. If not for that slight hitch in his breathing—undetectable to most, but Arya is _not_ most—she would think that he’s just resting there, ever so casually.

All around them are the ruins wrought by the wolves—this great hall is the last part of the lions’ den that remains intact, and the whole of Casterly Rock will soon be history.

Her clothes are spattered with his kinsmen’s blood. “Every Stark alive was once a lost Stark,” she replies.

Jaime laughs at that. Pain lances through him, but he carries on. “I suppose that’s true,” he says, and he gives her a wistful smile. “And I also suppose you’re not here just to chat.”

“You suppose correctly,” she agrees.

Jaime nods, as if he has made up his mind. “They say the North’s ways are the old ways.”

“That’s true.”

“So it’s not just because of some personal vendetta that you have come to swing the sword yourself.”

“No,” Arya shakes her head. “It’s duty. The one who passes the sentence should swing the sword herself.”

“Your father taught you well,” he muses. “Such an honourable man, Ned Stark.”

“A shame your son killed him.”

“A shame he didn’t take the throne when he had the chance,” he retorts, and he actually believes that. “If he did, a lot of people would have been spared a good deal of grief.”

“Perhaps,” she concedes. “But what’s done is done. And crimes to the North will be punished now.”

“Ah, the North remembers,” he nods again. “All right.”

The minute movement of her right hand is the only indication she’s surprised. “You aren’t going to fight?”

“I already did, didn’t I?” he asks her, but it is not really a question. “I have spent all my life fighting. I fought for glory, fought for power, fought for love. And what did that get me?” He scoffs, and his self-derision rolls off him in waves. “A golden hand and a ruined name and a broken heart.” He stares straight into her eyes then, weary and resigned. “I am not going to beg for mercy, you know.”

“I don’t expect you to,” she says. “And even if you did, I wouldn’t have listened.”

“Good. I don’t like pity.”

“I don’t give pity to those who doesn’t deserve it.”

“And that’s where you and your lady mother differ.”

Grey eyes narrow dangerously. “You know nothing of my mother.”

He ignores her. “I was in this position before. A different time and a different Stark, but the same position nonetheless. It was during the war your brother waged, and the Lady Stark held me prisoner to be bartered for her daughters.” He leans back, tipping his head against the chair behind him. “She let me go, after I gave my word that I’d see to it you and your sister would be returned to Winterfell.”

“You did not honour your word.”

“I tried,” Jaime says, matter-of-fact. “A Lannister always pays his debts, after all. Didn’t pan out as planned, but I tried.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“It’s not intended to be an excuse. I’m not looking for absolution, she-wolf. I know I won’t get it. Nor do I deserve it, after all I’ve done.” He sighs, and it takes a lot for him to perform that simple action. “My time has come, hasn’t it? And it’s in the claws of the wolf I should have protected, long ago.”

Arya unsheathed Needle.

“To be killed by such a slender weapon,” Jaime’s mouth upturns to a half-smile. “Tyrion would make fun of me.”

Arya steps forward until she’s but a foot away from him. “Any last words?”

He tilts his head, reflecting. And he sees Arya—a true child of Winterfell and all its nobility and honour and loyalty.

Regret grips his soul tightly then, for this child should not have known the sorrow which filled her life and brought her before him now. She’s a changed person—every one of them is, for better or for worse—a victim of circumstance, yes; she grew up too fast, and Jaime feels guilt for the part he played in all of it. “If you weren’t a child of my House’s sworn enemy, I might have liked you. Might have even wished for a child like you, with your sword and your resourcefulness and your determination.”

The grey-eyed predator’s voice is soft and low. “And if you weren’t responsible for crippling my brother and weren’t one of those who destroyed my family, I might have liked you. Might have even sought you out as a friend, with your knightly charm and skills in swordplay and warfare.”

He gives her one last smile, and she plunges Needle as deep as she can into the Kingslayer’s heart.

 


	3. Opus 2 - Abyssus abyssum invocat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Hell calls hell)
> 
> The Wolf Blade unleashes her rage.

 

**Arya**

 

She destroyed Casterly Rock in a storm of wrathful retribution.

With the full force of Northern fury, Arya Stark marched her dead brother’s army to collect a debt owed to their noble House.

 

****

 

 _A Lannister always pays his debts_ , the saying goes.

A blood-red ledger contains the record, and the time for payment arrives with swords and spears.

 

****

 

She slices and hacks her way through the western stronghold. She is the wolf of death; she is the sword of the gods.

She is here to kill, to execute, to avenge.

 

She is here for destruction.

 

****

 

Her clothes are splashed with lions’ blood, like some sort of macabre painting. Every stroke is masterful—cut, carve, sever; cut, carve, sever.

 

She’s a wolf on the hunt, and she will have her prey.

( _Bare your fangs, and let them see._

_Rip apart._

_Kill. Kill. Kill._ )

 

****

 

Arya’s every step equates to a dead Lannister.

(There won’t be any more for her to kill, before long.)

Silver fangs and claws are sharp against the gold beasts.

The lions’ pelts litter the halls of their den, and everything is coated in Lannister red.

 

****

 

Arya is an unstoppable whirlwind of death—the untamed wolf—and she pours her anguish and hatred into every blow.

She is going to end this—this war which stole her home and her childhood and her family and her innocence away. This war had wreaked too much havoc already, and she is tired of it.

No more.

This war would take no more.

 

She has no more to give, and it’s her time to take.

 

****

 

Stark bannermen and allies from the Eyrie and Riverrun keep the dwindling number of Lannister soldiers busy.

They too had lost a lot on that night of treachery, and they all are as thirsty for their enemies’ blood as the wolf who leads them.

(Northmen are loyal to a fault, and they have a long memory.

They remember, and they get even—sooner or later.)

They are roused further into action by the wolf’s display of almost supernatural force.

She is the only one they’ll follow into battle willingly and without asking for anything in return—this incarnation of the North’s power and devotion. She inspired in them the same commitment her brother did, and it helps that she possesses his intellect for combat—she might have even surpassed him already, with knowledge of the Free Cities and their tactics that she has acquired and has been implementing in their battles.

This wolf has led them to more victories than they’ve seen since Robb Stark first called the banners, and they know she will lead them to a future her Lord Father envisioned for the North.

And to that end—and beyond—they will be hers.

 

****

 

Arya had never seen the mighty Kingslayer look so helpless. Even mere laughing pains him—he suffered great damage during the heat of the battle earlier, but it was unfortunately not by her hand.

Before one of her soldiers could deliver the final blow, Nymeria stepped in. Her direwolf knew she’d like to deal with him herself.

He still cleaved through a number of her soldiers despite his inability, and she’s not above giving respect where it is due—no matter how grudging it might be, as it is to a Lion.

 

****

 

She can see all the weariness and resignation he feels when he tells her he won’t beg for mercy. (And she knows that look, for she had seen her fair share from all those lives she took in service of the Many-Faced God.)

She already knew that he wouldn’t, at any rate.

 _The real lions are like this one_ , she thinks in reluctant admiration. _They might be weak in the face of winter, but they won’t grovel._

Not like his bitch sister, and not like his whoreson.

He might be more like his father than he believes—or wants. Arya admits than even though she hated Tywin Lannister, the old man was notable in his craft. (It might have been the craft of trickery and carnage, but it was notable all the same.)  And he was proud, and he treasured his legacy more than he treasured anything.

He wouldn’t bow to anyone, that was sure.

The same way his son won’t ask to be spared from the North’s revenge.

 

The Kingslayer knows what is unpaid, and he will settle the debt, like his father before him.

 

****

 

She did not lie. If the circumstances of their lives had been different, she really would have liked Jaime Lannister. He was everything she aspired to be when she was a child—a royal knight, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He was adept with the sword, and he was everything the minstrels had sung about.

She remembers the impression he made all those years ago, when Robert Baratheon went to Winterfell to make her father Hand of the King. She was giddy with excitement— _he’s_ _the Kingslayer, the one whose sword struck down Mad King Aerys_!

If given the chance, she would have liked to be trained with him—or _by_ him—when they were at the Red Keep.

But she didn’t know any better then.

And the paths their lives took from then on brought them to this point.

It’s a tragedy, really, but nevertheless the truth.

 

****

 

She can’t feel sorry for him. Such emotions had been cast aside from Arya Stark a long time ago.

She’ll burn him like she did the others.

(But maybe she will grant him his burial shroud. If she so chooses.)

 

****

 

Arya knows he was just a pawn in the game—like she herself was—but she owes this to her dead father and dead mother and dead brother and dead sister-in-law and her unborn nephew.

She owes this to all those who lost their lives in the war of the lions and the wolves. She owes this to all those who perished because she wasn’t strong enough, back then.

( _The North remembers_.

 _And in your memory, I offer you this gift_.

 _It is ended_.)

 

****

 

The Wolves burn the Lions’ den, just like they did the Flayed Men’s fort and the Twins’ keep.

 


	4. Opus 3 - Adversus solem ne loquitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Don't speak against the sun)
> 
> The Dragon will take what is hers.

 

**Dany**

 

Daenerys Targaryen had not been raised to rule. No, that was Viserys, her brother who never really was a dragon.

She grew up believing that her role in this game her brother wanted to play (but never did, never could have) was just a mere puppet. She was a disposable chip, to be bartered away for someone else’s gain.

She was a pawn.

But now . . . now she is _the_ Queen.

Her word is the law.

And what she desires, she _will_ get.

 

****

 

Legends about the Sword of the Gods had reached her beforehand. The tales carried with them wonder and deference, but to Dany, they were borderline unbelievable. If not for the Spider’s reports—which lent credence to those stories—Dany would have dismissed them as mere ramblings of small folk who were hoping for some kind of hero.

(But it turned out that the hero does exist.)

Whispers about the long-lost she-wolf soon became loud chatter on the streets of the capital. Arya Stark has caused quite a wave across the Kingdoms, and eventually even Daenerys couldn’t deny that the accounts—though seemingly implausible—were indeed truths. Raven after raven arrived from Varys’ vast network of spies, and they all said the same thing: the youngest daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark had in fact returned, and she had become the North’s Liberator.

She delivered Winterfell from the grasp of the flayed men, turning them all into dead men.

When Daenerys heard of House Bolton’s eradication (and it was that word in particular the Spider used, because _nothing_ was left of the Dreadfort and its former inhabitants), she started paying closer attention to any news about Arya Stark.

 

****

 

Later, Daenerys heard how the young Stark managed to sneak into the Eyrie to kill Littlefinger and save her sister, the Red Wolf. Sansa Stark was returned to her family’s keep, where she belonged, and where she then sat as Warden.

It irked the Queen at first, for she had _not_ yet named any Warden of the North, and did not know who she could trust with the appointment.

She had half a mind to ride Drogon to Winterfell and educate the northerners on how she dealt with such insolent acts, but Tyrion told her to just wait and see what would happen.

“They came this far,” he said. “I don’t think you’d want to miss whatever else they can accomplish.”

She didn’t think it was a sensible decision, but Tyrion had never led her astray before. So she heeded his advice.

 

****

 

The next she heard of the tempestuous wolf, both lost brothers had been returned to Winterfell.

“I was told that all of the Stark children were dead,” Daenerys groused. “But Arya Stark showed up from the pits of hell, and her lost siblings begin popping out of nowhere.”

“I told you they would accomplish great feats,” Tyrion remarked.

“I did not mean that as a compliment,” she bit out.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion began, “a Stark must always be at Winterfell. Now there’s not one, but four. Four children of the most honourable House in the whole of Westeros. This can only herald good things.”

“How can you be sure that what’s good for them would be good for my rule as well?”

“The Starks have only ever been concerned with what’s good for their people,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Challenging the Dragon Queen is not a decision they will make.”

 

****

 

She ordered the Spider to redouble his efforts in keeping up with the Sword’s activities, just the same.

He, of course, complied.

“She has been named Wolf Blade by the free folk, Your Grace,” Varys told her several days later in the Small Council’s chamber.

“The free folk?” She frowned in confusion. “Isn’t that what the wildlings call themselves?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“What is the free folk’s business with Arya Stark?”

“Nothing, Your Grace.” He paused, and he seemed equal parts amused and perplexed. “At least nothing officially.”

“What do you mean, Varys?” she asked with narrowed eyes. Something about the way he spoke made her uneasy.

“It seems she has won the free folk over.” Varys sighed. “She let them into Winterfell.”

Daenerys straightened. “That is not her decision to make, is it?”

“The North has never been completely subdued, Your Grace,” Tyrion piped up. He took a sip of Arbor gold. “And up there, the Starks have supremacy. Should a Stark open Winterfell’s gates to welcome the wildlings, nobody would question the decision. And no one save you has the authority to question it, either. The Northerners are a loyal people—and their loyalty has increased tenfold since they’ve been freed from the Boltons.”

“But why would she do that?” As far as she knew, House Stark’s seat of power had been guarded from the wildlings for generations. Inviting them within its walls did not make much sense.

Varys answered, “Some say Lord Commander Snow asked it of her. He’s known to be sweet on those people. Others say she’s gathering forces to take on the Twins and the Rock. Or perhaps it’s both.”

“If that were true, Jon would have informed me,” she pointed out, with no small amount of reservation.

“Perhaps,” Tyrion allowed, contemplatively, “but then, your nephew has always been a Stark first and foremost.”

“Are you saying that he’s trying to undermine me?” Lilac eyes narrowed, righteously indignant.

“No, Your Grace.” He smiled, tipping his goblet in a salute. “I think it’s quite the opposite.”

Daenerys raised an eyebrow, and turned to Varys for an explanation.

“Little birds are singing about the Starks’s plan for a unified North—on _both_ sides of the Wall. And once they achieve that, it will be easier to treat with them.”

“So, what? The Starks are wrapping the North in a neat little package and getting ready to send it to me?” It was clear she didn’t believe that for a second.

Tyrion, however, simply chuckled. “To put it plainly, yes. They are a thorough bunch, I’ll give them that. Taking out the garbage and shearing away the undesirables.”

Daenerys merely shook her head, incredulous.

“They want their peace, but they want their revenge more,” Varys supplied. “It would be wiser to let them have the latter before negotiating with them the terms of the former.”

“You know I don’t negotiate, Varys.”

“Yes, Your Grace, but you do know the value of a compromise. Why risk the tentative calm that has just settled in the realm if we could just wait out what the young Stark has in store?”

“I would not risk it if there wasn’t a chance that the one territory larger than all of the others combined is raising up arms for a rebellion,” she snapped. “The last time that happened, the widow count across the Kingdoms had an unprecedented increase, alliances were forged and destroyed, and _my_ family ended up dead.”

Varys didn’t react to her temper—he never did. “The North has nothing against you, of that we are certain. If anything, they feel indebted to you for your help in the Wight War.”

“Then what truly is their goal?”

Tyrion then asked her, “Do you know what they say about the North, Your Grace?”

“They say a lot about the North,” Daenerys frowned, not sure of the change in the discussion’s trajectory.

“Yes, but as a whole, they say it has a long memory.”

“‘The North remembers,’” she said.

“‘The North remembers,”’ he nodded. “Quite ominous, if you think about it, but it is very true. When you do the North wrong, be sure to watch your back at all times, because they will not forget.” He gave her a significant look. “And just the same, if you offered them something or gave them your hand in their time of need, they would be forever grateful.”

Daenerys leaned back in her seat.

“Suffice to say that there is no chance of a rebellion against your rule, not from the North,” Varys concluded. “Whatever Arya Stark is doing now—if she is really forming an army—it is not intended to challenge _you_.”

“She is going to honour her dead parents, Your Grace. She is going to make war on those who claimed _her_ family.” Tyrion smirked, and there was a sort of sick satisfaction and pensive melancholy in his eyes. “And to that purpose, sooner or later, she is going to end _mine._ ”

 

****

 

In the following weeks, Daenerys learned of the Wolf Blade’s continuous hail of destruction. Tyrion’s words had proven true, and no sooner had the blood dried from Arya Stark’s attack of the Twins, she marched her army to the west and crushed under her heel the once-proud Rock, turning it to ash and rubble.

In no time at all, she had gained both rule of the North _and_ fear of the West. And the alliance she formed with the East, with her cousin young Lord Arryn, was stronger than ever.

Daenerys, being the Queen of the _Seven_ Kingdoms, could not allow so much influence and command to be concentrated in a single one of them, much less in the hands of someone whose loyalty she was not quite sure of.

She was about to call for Tyrion and ask him to write a summons for the Northern beast, when Varys told her a raven had arrived with a scroll bearing the direwolf sigil.

“This came in just a little while ago,” he said, handing it to her carefully.

She opened it, feeling curiosity and trepidation.

The paper was of heavy stock, heavier than the southron ones she had grown accustomed to using, and the handwriting was messy but sharp.

The words themselves, though, were clear and precise.

 _To Daenerys of House Targaryen, Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Lord Protector of the Realm_ , she read.

_Centuries ago, the King in the North bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons. When the dragons disappeared, the North once again proclaimed its own King and returned to the rule of the wolf, as was its right in the old days._

_But now that the skies see dragons’ wings anew, and fields of ice are charred with dragonfire, the North understands that the time of Fire and Blood has once again returned._

_I have just come from a western excursion, but I’m sure you already know that. And I also wager you’ve heard of the end that the Boltons, Freys, and Lannisters met with. The Spider’s little birds were not quite as hidden as he’d like them to be, but no matter. One way or another, news of these events would have reached you soon enough._

Her eyes flickered to Varys’, and he smiled wryly. “It seems Ned’s younger daughter has not been able to tame her wild nature. But at least she sounded a bit more civilized than the last time I heard her.”

She hummed at the thought. The letter was rather civilized, in her opinion, and she couldn’t detect a hint of mockery in its lines. For the moment, it was acceptable enough for her. She continued to read: _Now that our dead are avenged, the North would like to offer you its allegiance, which is already lawfully yours._

_We will reach the capital within a fortnight from the time when this was written. We are hoping for your kind welcome._

_A Wolf of Winterfell,_

_Arya Stark_

 

Daenerys checked the date. “They’ll be here in five days.”

“That’s plenty of time for preparations.”

She looked at him askance. “Are we throwing a feast I didn’t know about?”

“No, Your Grace. But the traveling Northern entourage is quite small, and it wouldn’t hurt to receive them with hospitality before discussing the terms of their allegiance.”

She looked at him coolly. “So you’ve already known of their plans, haven’t you?”

“The trees themselves carry whispers, Your Grace.”

She nodded, getting used to the Spider’s shadowy methods. “Very well then. I will ask Missandei to oversee the arrangements. We have wolves to house soon, after all.”

 

 

When she first sees Arya Stark, Daenerys is intrigued.

The Sword of the Gods is slight of build; she’s a bit taller than Daenerys herself, true, but she’s smaller than what the stories of ferocity that surround her say. Nonetheless, her presence is strong and compelling, and it fills any room she’s in. She carries an air of solemnity as tangible as her leather armour, and she moves around with a fluid grace that Daenerys knows to be deadly to anyone she sees as an adversary.

 _This is the one who holds Winterfell in her hands, and with it, the pledge of the East and the dread of the West_ , she muses.

Arya’s eyes are a stormy grey, and the lines of her face are sharp and severe. Her dark hair is short and disheveled, adding to the untamed aura she naturally exudes. There is no pretense in her; more beast than nobility, more wolf than lady.

The burden of her House weighs heavily on her shoulders, but she carries it with dignity. Daenerys can see how much her kin mean to her.

The wolf’s humility is astounding, and her candor is a breath of fresh air in an environment where everything about everyone is scrutinized and judged. Arya Stark does not seem to care at all about that, and though she speaks to the Queen with respect, there is an undercurrent of ease in her words, as if she’s talking to the Queen the same way she’d talk to anyone else. Daenerys has not encountered that sincerity since her days in the khalasar.

The Dragon within roars with approval.

In the few words they exchange, the Queen sees that Arya Stark is every bit the essence of which legends are made. She sees why the people call her Sword of the Gods, and she can see that beneath all of the wildness and savagery lie loyalty and devotion unmatched.

 

(The Queen sees, and the Queen _wants_ what she sees.

And what she wants, she takes.)

 

Sooner rather than later, the Dragon _will_ have this legendary Wolf.

Of that there is no doubt.

 


	5. Opus 4 - Beneficium accipere libertatem est vendere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (To accept a favour is to sell freedom)
> 
> The Dragon questions the Wolf Blade.

 

**Arya**

 

Arya goes straight to her old quarters in Winterfell as soon as she returns from Casterly Rock. She is in the process of taking off her bloodied armor when her sister barges in, the Rose of Highgarden in tow as per usual.

“You have to make an appearance at the capital,” the Red Wolf tells her.

“Nice to see you too, sister,” she greets blandly, dropping her gloves on her bureau. “I’m unharmed and our enemies are all dead, thank you for asking.”

Tully blue eyes, glaring at Stark grey ones, flashed with an unwavering conviction that was never there when they were children. “I am glad you’re safe. And I did not for a moment fear you wouldn’t be.” It is as close to an apology as she can give, as close to placation as she is capable.

Arya sighs and nods in acknowledgement. Her eyes then find the Rose’s, who is leaning at the wall by the door and watching them with fond amusement. “Hello, Margaery.”

“Hello, Wolf Blade,” Margaery says, grinning.

She snorts. “Tormund is going to pay for that. I do not need any more sobriquets.” She tugs uselessly at her leather straps, muttering a string of Tyroshi curses when they don’t give.

Sansa steps closer to her and swats her hands away. Her long fingers make quick work of the bindings. “All your experience fighting, and you’re still no good at taking off your own armor,” she mutters.

“I didn’t have any experience in actually _wearing_ any when I was in Braavos.” The armor drops on the floor with a dull thud. “Thank you.”

Sansa frowns at the blood on Arya’s white shirt, but she does not comment on it.

Arya walks to her bed and sits on its edge, starting to untie her boots. “Now, what were you saying about the capital?”

Sansa picks up the chestplate and places it carefully on a wooden box. “You have done right by our dead. Revenge is served, and there is no more excuse for dawdling. Jon fears if we wait longer than necessary, the Dragon Queen will take it as an affront to the Crown.”

Arya rolls her eyes. “Calling you Warden of the North without the Queen’s order _is_ an affront to the Crown.”

Sansa looks exasperated. “It’s not like I wanted them to.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s not happening,” Margaery points out, casually. She shrugs innocently when Sansa glowers at her. “What? It’s true.”

Arya smirks. “And isn’t that worse? That you have the people’s approval even though the Queen hasn’t sealed it?”

“And that’s why you need to go there and appease her, before this all blows up in our faces.”

She raises an eyebrow at her older sister. “Why, exactly, am _I_ the one who needs to go?”

“You’re the one with the army,” is the forthright answer.

“You’re the _Warden_ ,” she shoots back.

“Arya,” Sansa says, and she sounds so like Catelyn in that instant Arya wavers from her task at hand, “I do not command the largest army in the realm. You do.”

“I do not command the largest army in Westeros either,” she contends, stubborn. “The Tyrells do. So send Margaery.”

Margaery looks betrayed, being dragged into the sisterly quarrel this way. She retaliates, “The South already has a Warden named. And I’m sure if I say the word, Willas would support your cause, whatever it might be, Arya Stark. Besides, given all the people already following you, I’ll be surprised if you can’t match Highgarden’s army with yours man-for-man.”

Arya scowls at the Rose contemptuously.

Sansa beams at Margaery, having forgiven her earlier transgression, then stares at her younger sister triumphantly. “So you have the South’s army, and you have Robyn’s aid from the East. The West suffers from your attack. The Riverlands follow you. And all of our own bannermen are loyal to you, in addition to the support you gained from Jon’s friends beyond the Wall.” She sits next to her. “You could be viewed as a threat—and you might already be, for all we know—and we should change that impression quickly.”

“Sansa,” she groans, “you know I’m no good at the royal court. And I do not have any intention of waging war against the Queen who saved us from the Others. Why can’t we just let Jon handle his aunt, anyway, since he’s the one so afraid of angering her?”

As soon as the words are uttered, she feels a tug at the edge of her consciousness. She feels her sister falter, and she knows she feels it too. Nymeria bounds up in front of them, and she meets the direwolf’s eyes.

An image of Jon standing in the Lord Commander’s chamber reaches her. _The Targaryen Queen is starting to feel perturbed. She already views the North in a different light because of its hand in Robert’s Rebellion. If we do not act soon, there’s no saying what course of action she’ll take._

Her lips curl in distaste. Nymeria growls, a mirror of her sentiments.

Her brother—and no matter what the circumstances of his birth were, he will _always_ be her brother—looks morose. She senses Ghost’s low calming rumble. _I’m sorry. I would do it myself if I could, but what weight would a Night’s Watchman’s words hold? And I am not the one who earned the devotion of the North. Nor was it Sansa or Bran or Rickon. It’s you, Arya._

She hears Shaggydog howl, and Summer follows suit. She perceives it then: the pack’s pride and approval.

“Seven hells,” Arya grunts, frustrated. A warmth spreads in her chest, and she is not used to it.

Sansa exhales a long a breath, pleased. She waits for Arya to voice out a decision she knows is already made.

“Let me change into something that does not smell of lions’ blood, and then I’ll write a letter to the Queen.” Steel grey eyes as sharp as the blades wielded in battle snap at her irritably. “It seems like I did not have a choice in this matter in the first place.”

Sansa smiles serenely. “No, you did not.”

 

****

 

Sansa insists on reading the letter she wrote before sending it out.

They are eating dinner, and the rest of their men are relaxing, recalling the battles they’ve won so far.

“I’m not saying I don’t trust you, but it’s good to have another set of eyes,” Sansa pesters her.

“She’s not wrong,” Bran says, offhandedly. He appears prim, but Arya sees through him.

Rickon snickers, and even Sansa purses her lips to keep herself from laughing. Margaery has no such reservations, and she giggles outright.

Arya pinches the bridge of her nose. “Fine, fine. Read the damn thing if it will stop you all from giving me grief.” She slides the piece of rolled paper to her sister, who picks it up daintily.

Sansa nods as her eyes glide over the page. “You’ve improved in diplomacy.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious!” she hands it to Margaery, who reads it with Bran and Rickon. “I’m actually impressed.”

“I feel like I should be offended.”

Sansa shrugs, not denying it. “I’ll send it later, after dinner. Bran, can you make sure the raven we’ll use will reach the Queen without trouble?”

“Should be easy enough,” Bran agrees. He looks at Arya and teases, “And she’s right. This is rather good.”

Arya does not favor him with an answer, and instead digs into her mutton soup.

She ignores them for the rest of the night, but the warmth in her chest does not leave.

 

****

 

The moment she stepped into the throne room, Arya knew she would be subject to scrutiny: a wolf beneath the dragon’s gaze. And that’s all right, for the most part. She is not as naïve as she used to be, and she understands that the game of thrones does not really end—it does not mean she’s going to play it, nor would she ever have the desire to, but she _understands_.

What she decidedly does _not_ understand, though, is the Dragon Queen’s demand.       

“I want you to be my knight.”

Arya does not try to hide her puzzlement at the words from the Dragon Queen’s lips (and she is certain she heard correctly—she has been trained far too well to ever make such trivial errors—but whether or not the Queen is sure of her own words is another matter entirely). And though it was phrased as an expression of want (a well-mannered request, even), Arya recognizes that it is nothing short of a royal decree.

There is no mistaking that tone so characteristic of monarchs. The message is loud and clear: the choice she needs to make is no choice at all.

(Why is she always presented with illusory options?

It’s like the gods are all mocking her.)

She sees the Imp shift, and it’s evident he did not anticipate this turn of events, either.

 _Makes the two of us_ , she thinks. _This is indeed a surprise_.

And it is something for which she is ill prepared.

She is here only because her siblings asked— _urged_ , _impelled_ —her to.

And the possibility of becoming the Queen’s knight was not covered in the discussion she had with them.

Yet she knows she can’t refuse. Arya’s aim here is to pacify the Queen, not antagonize her, and telling her no will certainly not help with that.

The Queen’s voice cuts through her musings. “You don’t need to provide me an answer right this second, Wolf Blade.” Her violet eyes are trained on Arya’s men, who are standing behind their general and whose anxiety is almost palpable. Her voice is softer now—thoughtful. “I understand your men do not want to lose their commander. And I know you would want to talk with your siblings about this.”

Arya is again struck bewildered. “Your Grace, you’re too kind.” She bows. “This is an unexpected offer, one I never imagined would ever be given me.”

Only it’s not an offer. She knows this as well as every other person in the room.

And yet Queen Daenerys allows her a chance to talk to her men and her siblings, and it’s a gracious—though ultimately futile—gesture.

“You can give me an answer once we’ve discussed the terms of the North’s allegiance.” Queen Daenerys tilts her head; it is a small movement, but Arya sees it is a precursor of dismissal. She’s right, for the Queen’s next words are, “For now, you and your men can rest.”

Arya almost laughs at said men’s collective sigh of relief, but she is too busy reeling from the implications of the Queen’s command.

A knight. That has always been her dream.

She is the North’s, of that there is no question.

But as she feels the Queen’s eyes following her as she leads her men out of the throne room, a nagging voice at the back of her head tells her that somehow, in some way, she is also already the Dragon’s.

 


End file.
